


pitching tents

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Consensual, Consent Issues, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A harsh day of training in a storm leaves Armin exhausted and unable to keep himself in control.





	

Armin collapses on the ground, hardly feeling the impact against the wet, freezing forest floor on his numb muscles. But he feels the rough fabric, the fabric of the sheet Marco laid down for them as they tiredly and hastily built their tent, against his cheek and against his fingertips. The rain water of the forest floor has made the fabric just barely damp, enough to bring a cool relief to Armin’s heated skin, although he is shivering as well as panting. His eyes are closed, heavy—if Marco hadn’t called out to him, he would have slept forever. So he opens his eyes, turns over slowly. Marco is crouched over him, at a respectful distance, because, of course, Marco’s a kind, considerate person.

“Let’s change fast,” Marco says, “You’re going to catch a fever if you stay like that.”

“Yeah,” is all Armin can manage to push out of lungs that are ready to implode.

They’re in undershirts and short under-trousers that cling to them with sweat and rain, but it’s a welcome relief from the heavy dampness of their jackets and gear. Armin almost couldn’t remember eating their meager stale bread afterwards as he lies down, wrapped in his sleeping blanket. He knows from the numbness of his muscles that he will be in pain tomorrow morning, but, being able to lie down, protected from the arrows of rain falling from the cold night sky, feeling body warmth near him, he knows he could soundly push the thought of tomorrow away with slumber.

The tent is big enough for Armin to lay down, legs stretched out, with room to spare, even with their bags and gears. But, Marco’s less fortunate. An arm’s length away, he had attempted to give Armin space, as the considerate young man he is, but his legs kick at the tent’s walls.

Armin tries to whisper softly. “Marco. Hey, Marco…”

He stops after a long half minute, turning over to Armin—but his eyes are closed and his breathing rhythmic. Armin shouldn’t stare, but who’s there to stop him? Not a foot away, Armin can even feel the faint warmth of Marco’s breath, and the warm skin of Marco’s knee brushing against Armin’s thigh ever-so-softly.

1, 5, 9, 17, 34… he doesn’t know how long he counts the freckles on Marco’s face, arms and leg for, just long enough to know for sure Marco must be asleep. It’s hard to count, because the man next to him shifts and turns quite often, covered in the darkness of night; after 52, Armin counts the lengths of which Marco moves towards and away from him, as though the decreasing and increasing measurement represented anything deeper than Marco’s inability to stay still.

The weary ache that plagued Armin throughout the campaign left the minute Marco’s leg fell over one of Armin’s. Armin froze, but the thoughts in his mind raced in all sorts of directions—it raced towards everywhere but sanity. Recklessness and curiosity overrode caution and rationality.

Exhaling was hardly an option as Armin pushed himself so, so carefully towards Marco, until he could hear the modest beating of Marco’s heart, could drape his arms around Marco’s chest. He could feel Marco’s arms falling naturally around him, as if he was given a soft hug, a hug Armin always imagined Marco would give. With their arms and legs tangled together, bodies so close, he feels as though he could bury himself in Marco forever, and it’d be alright.

Armin closes his eyes, and remembers the careless summer days lazing on earthy hills, earth warmed by the rising sun. But he also remembers digging, feeling the deep brown soil pliable between his fingers, ruining the beautiful earth for his own childish greed. And this, too, is no different, with the exception of no longer being graced with ignorance.

“I’m so sorry, Marco,” Armin wants to say, over and over, pressing his face in Marco’s chest and hugging him just a little tighter, as he moves his thigh closer between Marco’s legs.

It’s so warm. Armin can feel Marco’s breath against the top of his head, becoming a beat or so more irregular with ever movement. He can feel the warm skin of Marco’s arms, tightening around him. And, he can feel the heat of Marco’s crotch on his thigh, can feel Marco’s cock hardening like the dried soil on hot sunny days as Armin rubs it, slowly, as innocuously as possible, and, with every movement of his leg, he can feel his own morality and sanity slipping through his fingers like water, rushing through streams and rivers, destroying the earth when it finds its way off the river path, when the rain becomes a downpour.

It’s hard keeping his breathing steady and his eyes shut, not when he can feel Marco’s length, his girth against him so. But when deep groans escape Marco’s throat, filling Armin’s ears more than each and every raindrop falling on the roof of the tent, he mentally counts the duration of each breath. He wills his heart to beat again when he feels Marco’s lips moving against his forehead.

“Mmm…”

Marco’s hips jerk forward and, god, Armin wants Marco’s cock so bad. He holds himself still, lets Marco do the work. The shallow thrusts lessen and the hold Marco has loosens as Armin can feel a groggy muffle against the side of his temple, heated breath tickling his ear and threatening to expose Armin’s lie—Marco must be waking up.

“Ah…Ar-Armin,” Marco groans. He shifts, and the friction against Armin’s thigh elicits a stifled moan. Armin keeps himself still, but not stiff, and counts the seconds of his inhales, his exhales, thinks of grassy hills on summer days.

A sharp gasp fills the humid tent. He feels one of Marco’s arms leave his side immediately, probably to silence the voice that gave away alertness. Marco is still as a stone against him, shaking only slightly.

“Armin,” Marco whispers softly, but the voice is on edge. “ _Armin_.”

“Hey… are you awake?”

Marco’s voice is gentle, like a calm and rare wind from back home. His rough fingertips traces the curve of Armin’s cheek, brushing back hair away from his eyes in a way Armin hasn’t even dreamed of—like a lover.

Armin shifts his head, and the touch of Marco’s hands retract immediately. He can’t trust himself to keep a slumbering face, so he lets out a sleepy noise and turns over to his other side, hating the distance from the very man he’s pined for, hating himself for doing this to such a good man.

But not long after he can hear and feel Marco shifting closer to him—why? It takes all of Armin’s sanity, the little he has left, to keep himself still when he feels Marco’s lips and nose in his hair. Armin can hear the faint sound of Marco’s soft, uneven breaths, and something slick and rhythmic.

“Sorry…”

Armin can feel the head of Marco’s cock and the movement of Marco’s fist against his back. Armin’s mouth is dry and his mind empty of rational thought.

“God, Armin—”

2, 3, 4 quick pumps. Armin counts along with Marco’s fist as he opens his eyes slowly, seeing only darkness, but feeling a taunting heat behind him. On the 8th count, Armin lets out a sleepy groan and turns his head slightly, eyes half-open, feinting sleepiness.

“Marco…?”

At that very moment, time stops for them. The earth stills, the downpour ceases. They stare at each other—Marco, shocked, horrified, Armin so anxious his heart could burst. He can’t tear his eyes away from Marco’s, deep bright brown even in the darkness of the night. But his eyes betray him, trailing down Marco’s body, resting on the sight of Marco’s hand and cock.

Marco jumps away, blabbering – _Armin, I’m—I’m sorry, I’ll just, let me_ – incomplete thoughts and apologies, but Armin, no longer able to still himself, shaking from nervousness and joy and lust, simply inches forward. His throat is dry, taking all of his willpower to ask, “Can—can I kiss you?”

Armin licks his wanting lips, waiting for a response, eyes drinking in the sight of one of the top soldiers in front of him.

“I—uh—ye, yes, _yes_ ,” Marco says, and the desperation in his voice makes Armin want to cry.

But he doesn’t—he just leans in, slowly, bringing his lips to Marco’s. Their first kiss is soft and sweet, short but so perfect. Armin pulls away, every inch of his body burning. He doesn’t want to dirty Marco anymore, perfect honor-student Marco, but the way Marco looks at him now, eyes burning, chest heaving, cock hard and standing so provocatively almost makes Armin want to come right then and there; instead, he removes his shirt, and then his shorts, slowly, because he wants this to last, wants to give Marco everything he could offer.

Armin crawls onto Marco’s lap, making sure their cocks, hard and leaking with precome, brush against each other, just a small taste of each other. He puts his hand against Marco’s cheek, tracing Marco’s right eyebrow with his thumb. There are freckles underneath. His own chin is branded, scalding hot as Marco cups it softly, tilting his head slightly upwards.

They kiss again, and Armin melts. The kiss is just as Armin has always imagined—gentle, soft, and so incredibly hot. It’s comforting at first, but Marco grips Armin’s chin a little tighter. Armin’s lips part, and at that moment Marco kisses surge into a passionate frenzy. Their tongues collide, tasting each other with insatiable hunger that could not be quenched so easily.  

Marco’s hand moves to the side of Armin’s head, the other wrapping around Armin’s waist. His hip thrusts, pushing his big, fat cock against Armin’s, and the friction makes Armin dizzy. Armin whines, quietly, bringing a hand to his mouth to silence himself, but the hand is taken away. Marco holds it and kisses it.

“Don’t,” he says, voice deep and desperate. “Please, I—I wanna hear you.”

“ _Marco—_ ”

Marco whispers, breathing hot against Armin’s ear, “I love your voice, Armin. Talk to me, _please_.”

“I can’t,” Armin whines, hot and panting, “The others— _mm!”_

The kisses, the hands holding him, the heartbeat against his own, are hotter than Armin could have ever imagined. He’s always thought of Marco as good, as soft, as gentle. And he is, but now, enveloped in his arms, his hard cock pulsating, his kisses reducing Armin to a puddle of incoherent, lustful fool—it’s beyond even Armin’s most wayward imaginations.

“Talk to me,” Marco says again in between kisses.

Armin releases himself from Marco’s lips, back arching as he could feel a toe-curling chill shoot up his spine. He steadies himself with his arms as he re-positions himself to grind his ass against Marco’s thick, hot cock back and forth. He shuts his eyes, unable to contain his pleasure, moaning in a way he never thought he was capable of.

“God, Marco, I…”

He grips his own dick as his continues moving his body sinuously, nearly coming when the fat tip of Marco’s cock brushes against his hole.

He’s shaking when he says, “I, I need your cock in me.”

Marco jerks his hips up, then again, and again, squeezing Armin’s ass with strong, firm hands. A hand moves slowly, tauntingly lower, and lower, until it reaches Armin’s hole. Marco pushes against it, pushes his finger in, and Armin can hardly keep it together when Marco starts working him open. He barely even registers when Marco starts to use ointment at first, until he feels Marco’s fingers moving in and out with ease, when two fingers become three.

Armin throws his arms around Marco’s neck, kisses him, unable to think clearly with Marco’s fingers deep in him, opening him so. Their kiss is wet, messy, hot. Their cocks are wet, so ready to come, and Armin nearly does when waves of hot pleasure shoots through him like earthquakes, one after another—

“ _Ah—there!_ Oh, god, Marco, I’m…”

Armin tries to fuck himself on Marco’s long, steady fingers, but finds himself empty as Marco withdraws. But suddenly, with one smooth move, he’s forced to the ground, with Marco above him.

“Armin…”

Marco gives him a soft kiss, like a lover, and traces fingers through his hair. Armin tries to steady his breath, focusing on the constellation of Marco’s freckles in the night, the bright sun of Marco’s eyes, the soft smile Marco has that Armin’s never seen before. He closes his eyes, breathes twice, and opens them again, and god, Marco’s still there, smiling at him like he’s the most important person in the world. Marco, the good man from the inner walls, so handsome and kind, is above him, caressing him, holding him like a lover. Armin’s eyes water a bit, and wonders if he is getting too close to the sun.

But Marco brushes Armin’s warm, red cheek, and says, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

Armin holds onto Marco’s neck tightly, burying his face into the warm crook, because there’s nothing to say to that. He can’t say that it’s Marco’s who’s perfect, no matter how true it is. He can’t tell Marco that he’s always been watching him, studying him, dreaming about him.

Marco is careful when he pushes a pillow underneath Armin’s lower back, touching Armin’s side gently, as though it’d break at any moment. He takes off his shirt, kicks off this trousers and positions himself between Armin’s legs. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.

“I’m,” Armin gasps, “ready.”

When Marco pushes the head in, Armin hides his face and soft cries behind his hands. Marco groans, pushing further in, voice so deep and dripping with lust Armin can’t believe it’s him.

“Armin, Armin please,” Marco nearly begs, “I want to hear you, see you.”

He gently pushes Armin’s hands away. Armin’s gaping, voice ripped from him with the full thick length of Marco’s cock in him, pulsing and hot and so, so good.

“I’m going to move, okay, Armin?” Marco’s voice is panting and breathless.

Armin nods, but as soon as Marco does, he lets out a low whine—until Marco pushes in again, filling Armin with his cock. He goes slowly, carefully, and when Armin opens his eyes he can see it’s killing him. Marco’s biting his lower lip, eyebrows drawn together, concentrating so much when he should be given everything.

So Armin takes a deep breath, wrapping his legs tight around Marco’s waist, eliciting a groan as they’re pushed closer together. He moves his hips back and forth, urging Marco to move faster, move harder, to just _move_. Armin lets out a shaky, ecstasy-filled sigh when Marco embraces him tightly, desperately. “It’s okay, Marco, it’s— _god,_ oh, like that, _there!_ ”

The entire tent shakes back and forth with them as Marco lets go of any worries and fucks hard and deep into Armin. His thrusts are powerful, taking care to push all of his cock into Armin, pulling out until the tip, pushing back in again with so much force the sound of Marco’s hip against Armin’s ass echoes in the tent shifting tent over and over.

“You feel so good,” Marco groans, “So good inside you, I’m so close—”

Armin is completely lost in it, head tilted back and hands gripping at the sheets underneath him. He’s nearly screaming, moaning so loudly the others would be deaf not to hear if they were not given the thunder the storm above them.

“Oh, fuck, _Marco,_ don’t stop, yes, _yes,_ ” the words fell from Armin’s lips like the rain.

The sound of Armin’s moans must have spurred Marco on, his thrusts getting faster and shallower with every second. “Armin, don’t stop, keep talking to me—please—”

“You,” Armin pants, breath heavy and labored, “your cock, _god_ , your cock is so good, Marco, so hot inside me—”

Everything is about Marco now, inside him and all around him, surrounded and enveloped by flesh and freckles. He hugs him tight and gives him one more kiss before Marco thrusts his swollen, throbbing cock deep, deep into Armin, letting out an intense, hot heat that rushes through Armin fast. The sensation of Marco’s orgasm, Marco’s seed spilling into him, fills Armin throughout his body, his body that’s arching into Marco’s warm hand that’s now caressing Armin’s leaking cock.

“ _Armin_ ,” Marco’s voice pierces through him.

“ _Marco_ ,” Armin says, desperately, because as the pool of pleasure in him grows with every moment Marco makes, so does the guilt. And it hurts, because Marco is so, so good, too good for Armin and what he’s done, but he can barely think—Armin just _feels_ , and for every ounce of pleasure he feels, from Marco’s hand around his cock and Marco’s cock in him and everything about Marco now, he feels the guilt of having started this through trickery, feels his childish greed saying it’s alright, feels his heart ready to explode.

Marco kisses Armin on the cheek, and it burns. He looks hurt, almost. His eyes are starry, lips curved upwards in a beautiful, modest smile. But still, he looks conflicted, and it kills Armin.

“I’m so sorry, Armin,” Marco says, but his hand doesn’t stop pumping Armin’s cock. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have… touched myself, earlier, while you were sleeping, using you. God, I’m so sorry…”

“No,” Armin cries, overwhelmed, breaking down inside. “Marco…”

“But, I wanted this,” he continues. “I want _you,_ so, so much.”

Armin knows he won’t last, and begs, “ _Kiss me._ ”

Their kiss is almost too much for Armin, so much that he can’t keep his lips together, open and ready for Marco, just like the rest of his body. He can’t focus, can’t think of anything - not of guilt, of schemes, or even of titans -  but _Marco_ , not with the waves of pleasure drowning his entire body, rushing to his core in a hot heat, in sync to Marco’s fist. He thrusts his hip, desperate for the warmth of Marco’s hand, and he can still feel the girth of Marco’s now soft but thick cock in him.

“Armin,” Marco whispers against his ear, “Come for me. _Please.”_

Armin gasps Marco’s name, toes curling, back arched, head thrown back as the shivering pleasure of his orgasm overtakes his entire body. He can’t register Marco’s words, but he can feel the warmth of Marco’s breath, coaxing him softly to completion with whispers like a sweet summer breeze and a firm, warm hand like a day laying out in the sun.

His heart is beating loudly, he can hear it through his chest, but after the waves of pleasure ride over him, the darkness becomes palpable, prominent. His eyelids are heavy, though he fights to keep them open, to see Marco, who’s so close to him, smiling, touching his cheek with such gentleness it must be a dream.

“Marco…”

“It’s fine, Armin.” A damp cloth runs along his body. “Go to sleep.”

The last thing Armin feels before sleep claims him is Marco’s lips on his, soft and sweet in the darkness of the night. The weight of sleep is too heavy, unconcerned with how much Armin wants to say sorry, to tell Marco that he’s the one who wanted this, that he’s the one who has always wanted Marco, from the very moment they’ve met. But when he gives in and shuts his eyes, the thoughts and the guilt go away, with only the fluttering of his heart left as evidence.

He thinks of freckles and the warmth of the summer sun, and finally sleeps.


End file.
